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April 2010

Today, I am filing this post from my parent's condo in Century City. Since I live in a loft in downtown and write about my adventures from there - I'm sure you've figured out something is up.

OH YES IT IS. That is why it's taken me so long to write this post. I apologize for missing a week. I just didn't know what to say.

But inspiration came to me last night in the form of Cameron Diaz.

As a little back story - I moved into my "new loft" on Sunday, April 18th - since then I have not been able to sleep in the unit for six nights - due to a severe reaction to the cleaning fluids used to clean it as well as MORE YUCKY STUFF that I will fill you in about later.

Right now though I want to tell you about my friends.

I am blessed with many wonderful, caring friends. Many of whom have gone "way beyond" to help me this week - one of the hardest in my life. I refer to them as saints. St. Stacy, St. Susan, St. Betty, St. Frederica, St. Ruth, St. Peter, St. Marc, St. Jaimi, St. Dawn and on and on. Boy, am I lucky.

St. Susan, who in real life is known as Susan Miller, is the founder of Astrology Zone, a successful internet company. She lives in New York and we're close friends. I greatly admire her. Not only do millions visit her site monthly, but she developed an astrology "software" program before anyone knew that "soft" and "ware" went together, and her own mobile application - way ahead of others, too. This, in addition to raising two daughters solo.

A famous astrologer, she happened to be in LA this week. Knowing what I was going through, she insisted on taking me to dinner last night. "Nancy, you need to eat!"

Just as I arrived at Susan's daughter's apartment in West Hollywood to pick her up, I got a call from her. "Nancy, I'm at the Chateau Marmont. Can you pick me up here?"

What? Frustrated and exhausted from my loft ordeal, I screamed into my cell, "I don't know where the Chateau Marmont is!" Actually, I did, but I had forgotten and besides I was already at the place where I was suppose to pick her up!

"I'll put my friend on the phone to help you," she said.

MOST DEFINITELY NOT my thoughtful charming self, I rudely said, "Geez, can you drive Susan to the restaurant? What about a cab?" Her friend answered very sweetly - "I have a car, but I can't drive it. Sure, if you want I'll put her in a cab. But it's really close. All you have to do is go two blocks east and make a left on Crescent Heights and then another left on Sunset."

"Okay, I said begrudgingly, I'll be there in eight minutes!" And, I'm thinking why can't she drive her car?

When I pulled into the hotel's parking lot, Susan and I waved at each other - and in the corner of my eye I noticed her friend standing next to her.

Oh-my-god. Her "friend" was Cameron Diaz. I was rude to Cameron Diaz. And Cameron Diaz was walking to my car!

"I swear to you, I am not my normal self. I was talking to you? You are so adorable. Prettier than in the movies. Honestly, I've just had a really bad week." "I know, she said, "Susan told me, and I wanted to come down and meet you."

"Really?" Then I started babbling - how I was having so much difficulty, and I knew that one of my loft property management guys was single, and if she could just talk to him, I'm sure everything would be okay. And how about if I drove her downtown, and....

....Without a stitch of make-up on, looking beyond stunning, she smiled her gorgeous smile, giggled her famous giggle, and said she would help but that she needed to leave now and she gave Susan and I more directions.

I was ready to kill Susan. "Why didn't you tell me she was "the friend?" "I did!" Then she said, Cameron was at the hotel to help another friend. Her friend's friend went into labor THAT DAY in Boston. At the age of thirty, while giving birth, she unexpectedly died and so did her baby.

Now that was a tragedy.

And in a poignant moment I will never forget, I realized that life is all about perspective. And in my case, it took the kindness of a famous stranger to help me see it.

I'll fill you in on my moving saga later.

But before I finish this post, I'd like to lovingly thank my elderly parents for being there when I needed them, at a great inconvenience to themselves. THANK YOU Mom and Dad.

And I didn't shout. Or scream. Or flip a finger at old feather-face. I just stood there and got hysterical. Yes, I couldn't stop laughing - which felt fun - but in the back of my mind, I remembered reading that hysterical laughter over small things - is not a good sign. I repeat, not a good sign.

With my hand on my head, I walked into the bank, and in between uncontrollable giggles, I said to one of the bankers that "a bird just crapped on my head at the ATM, and I NEED A KLEENEX NOW." Then she started laughing, too, pretty loudly for a banker in a gray suit.

She handed me a stack of paper towels, and I wiped myself off with as much dignity as I could muster, and when I left the bank I started to cry on Spring Street. That is when I knew that what I had remembered was right - and I was DEFINITELY out of whack, a little soft in the head, a basket case.

The bird was a metaphor for my life.

For those of you who read my last post, you know that last week I still didn't know when and if I would be moving into my new loft. There was a management switch over - and I had gotten caught in the switch. No screenplay writer or Vegas bookie could have even dreamed up the scenario.

By Monday of this week there was some progress, the new management company had finally received my lease and rent check from the old management company, but I still didn't know when the place would be ready for me to move into. Which meant I could not call the DWP, the cable company, the movers, the housecleaning service, and on and on.

Basically my life was on hold with a LOFT MOVE hanging over my head. VERY STRESSFUL.

It was on Tuesday that old feather-face got me - representing all that was crappola in my life. I mean, even a bird understood that things were just not right.

But by some magic karma - on Wednesday - I found out that my loft would be ready by Friday. The refrigerator would be in, the place cleaned, I could get the keys and move in over the weekend. These new management guys were actually nice to me on the phone. I guess they felt my pain.

And later that day, a friend, who once lived in Italy, told me that Italians believe a bird crapping on your head means "good fortune." So maybe I am lucky. Or not.

Since most of you have been following my tales for awhile now, you're in the loop of my life. At least the cyberspace loop. And some of you - gasp - I even talk with on the phone! So we are looped de looped.

Here's the deal. I will share the whole saga.

Let me start by proclaiming, moving sucks. They (whoever "they" are) say moving is right up there with divorce, getting run over by a car or being hit by a bus. They (whoever "they" are) are right.

Right now, I want my childhood blankie, some hot cocoa (it's 85 degrees out) and a tranquilizer - one that is big enough for a horse.

A little back story. Several months ago my landlord Julio Martinez told me he would be moving back into "his" loft - as you may remember, I wrote about it in Oh-my-God, I've Got to Move.

So, that left me with a couple of choices, move to Hawaii and live amongst the pineapples (I actually considered that on days I was totally into my fantasies), find a new loft in downtown, or jump from my fourth floor nicely arched windows.

I decided to start looking downtown. I even held a contest, where I was offering $100, if you could help me find a loft - which many of you responded to.

I became a woman on a mission. I walked the pavements, read the ads, met wayyyyy to many leasing agents, even took Hal Bastian's bus tour and came home most days crying. This place was too small...not enough light...no parking in the building...and on and on... until...I am sure when some of my friends saw my name come up on their phone - they did not take the call.

"Oh know, it's Nancy, again!" they were thinking. The perfectionist. The one who talks to healers to find out if a loft will appear. The woman who just needs to sign a lease already!

But, I was sticking to what I wanted. No way was I going to spend a bundle on something I didn't like. By the time I had looked at over 50 spaces (yep, 50) - I was ready to call it quits. That's when my Hawaii fantasy kicked it. I'd put my possessions in storage, live in a one room shack (but a nice one) and get Wifi near the beach. Yes, I would write Tales of Downtown about downtown LA from an island. Made perfect sense to me.

Then fate intervened a few weeks ago. A beautiful place in my current loft building opened up as if by magic. And in five seconds (maybe 10), I screamed, "Yes, I will take it." And the manager who no longer is the manager moved mountains to help me stay. So she won the contest. Then she was "let go."

Now, I'm dealing with a new management company with no phone number in Manhattan Beach. I don't know if they have my lease yet, if they even know when I am supposed to move in, if they've cleaned up the place (it was left a real mess by the former tenants), whether they've purchased the refrigerator that comes with my unit, or when they will give me the keys.

All I know is that I sit amongst stacked boxes, with diminishing food in my refrigerator. And that I'm moving downstairs. I think.

When all of this is over - I really will go to Hawaii and not only eat the pineapples but talk to them too.

When I moved downtown fifteen months ago, I knew no one, nada, nobody. There was no friend to hang with, no one to call, no dinner parties that I was invited to.

The only people I barely knew were my loft neighbors - and since most of them introduced themselves by their loft number, "Hi, I'm in loft #302. Stop by." "Hi, I'm in loft #601. Glad to meet you." "Hi, I'm in...." Yada, yada, yada.

I mean - how many people can you be friendly with who refer to themselves by numbers? Obviously, I had to make a new life of my own. FAST.

I picked up the phone and started calling total strangers. "Hello, would you like to be in my series?" "I'm Nancy Mills (as in, I'm sure you don't know me from Adam)... but it's going to be great."

What chutzpah looking back on it. Or desperation. Or....I don't know what.

That's how I met Bert Green. The guy who founded the art walk. The owner of Bert Green Fine Art, the guy who said "yes!" to my call and to being a part of my series. The former New Yorker who has lived in downtown (forever) and has become my friend over time.

So the other night we met up in front of Banquette's. Our plan was to have dinner out - the thing is though - we had no idea where we were going. That was okay. Because walking with Bert is like walking with the downtown Encyclopedia Britannica.

As we made our way to Little Tokyo (by a unanimous vote), he talked to me about how the big trees on the corner of 3rd and Main were planted by Lady Bird Johnson, the story behind the new police center park, and how downtown has evolved from drug shoot outs to a place of revitalization (which he humbly left out that he had a lot to do with).

When we got to Little Tokyo - we first went to the The Lazy Ox Canteen - the new restaurant on San Pedro that is winning raves. We looked at the menu and realized that we might have to sell our cars to pay for dinner. Leaving quickly...

We ended up in this fantastic place, Yakitori Koshiji, which is on the upper level of the Weller Court shopping center. Bert is a foodie, and his friend had taken him to this place once before. The food was so good that I almost started singing. A habit from childhood.

Long story short, or short story long, we spent the night walkin', talkin' and schmoozin', and I realized without a doubt how far my life had come.